


Sweet Child of Mine

by ariel2me



Series: Drabble/Ficlet Collection [19]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:12:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of parent-offspring drabbles written for one-word prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A collection of parent-offspring drabbles inspired by a one-word prompt

For a drabble challenge on Tumblr.

[Send me a parent-offspring pair + a number and I will write a drabble.](http://arielno.tumblr.com/ask)

  1. love
  2. hope
  3. faith
  4. reunion
  5. footsteps
  6. grief
  7. disappointment
  8. betrayal
  9. separation
  10. repudiation
  11. fear
  12. shame
  13. courage
  14. pride
  15. sacrifice




	2. Chapter 2

**Rhaella Targaryen & Viserys Targaryen, love**

“Who hurt you, Mother? Where did the bruises come from?”

Kissing the top of her son’s head, Rhaella whispers, “No one, love. I was clumsy.”

_I tripped on something and fell. I should have been watching the floor more carefully._

_I collided with the door. I wasn’t watching where I was going._

_I fell down the stairs in my unseemly haste._

She did it for love, _fierce_ protective love, shielding her little boy from his father’s true nature. Aerys has never and would never hit Viserys, Rhaella is convinced of that, or her reaction would have been completely different. And as much as Aerys despises Rhaegar, despises the son he thinks is eclipsing the glory that should have been his legacy, Rhaegar is too strong, too protected by the coterie of loyal young men who are always by his side.

She is glad for her eldest son, grateful to the gods that he is safe from Aerys’ harm, at least physically, but she could not help wishing that there are other Jon Conningtons and Arthur Daynes of the world who are willing to keep her and Viserys safe from harm. No matter; _she_ had to be the one protecting her little boy, because there is no one else to do it.

No, Aerys would never hit Viserys, as long as the boy is his cat’s paw against the grown son he wants to disinherit. That is the thing that would protect Viserys from his father. But if she were to tell him, if she were to let slip his father’s true nature to Viserys, there is no telling what could happen then. The boy loves her, no, not just love, he _adores_ his mother in a way he does not feel or show towards anyone else. Aerys would know, would see it in Viserys’ eyes if the boy has been turned against his father, and then Viserys would never be safe from his father.

What she doesn’t know, what she couldn’t possibly have known and what would absolutely horrify her if she had any inkling of it, is the fact that Viserys sees a lot more the she suspects, keeps the secret even from his mother, and draws his own grossly and horribly misguided conclusion. Years later, he would say to his sister, “Mother never minded. She is the best woman in the world, the only woman I ever loved and admired, and _she_ never minded. Why should you mind so much, you _stupid_ , _stupid_ girl? Why can’t you be more like Mother?” before leaving bruises on Daenerys’ arms.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Mellario of Norvos & Arianne Martell, betrayal**

Arianne counted three wigs. Her mother had left behind three of her wigs, including her best one, the soft curls of which Arianne had often tried to smooth out and put straight with the palms of her hands.  

_Surely this means Mother will return? Surely Mother will not leave this wig behind, her favorite, her absolute favorite?_

The wigs had all been jettisoned when Mellario first came to Dorne. She had let her hair grow long after her betrothal, so she could come to Dorne to wed her Dornish prince looking more like the women in the land she would be calling her new home. The wigs returned not long after her husband betrayed her with his silence and his secrets, soon after she was finally told the son she had labored to bring into the world was to be used as coins to pay a blood debt contracted by her husband’s reckless brother.

_You will hate me if I stay._

_How could I hate you for not leaving us, Mother?_

_You will hate the bitter, vengeful woman I would become if I stay. You will hate the mother who poisons her children against their father, against their people, against their land. You will hate the woman who has fallen so far down the pit of despair she wishes to destroy both herself and her husband, the father of her children._

Running her fingers down the length of her mother’s favorite wig, Arianne recalled the feel of her mother’s hand running down her cheek. _I could not do that to you, Arianne. Or to Quent and Trys. I could not do that to my children._

_But you could leave us? You could betray your children that way?_

_Staying would be a bigger betrayal._


	4. Chapter 4

**Stannis Baratheon & Shireen Baratheon, hope**

The letter from his daughter arrived at a most unfortunate time, when he was spending all waking moments trying to extricate Robert and the realm from yet another disaster of Robert’s own making. It took him three days after its arrival to finally read Shireen’s letter, recalling all the while Maester Cressen’s gentle rebuke that he should be writing more often to the wife and the daughter he left behind in Dragonstone.

 _I have found a splendid pet, Father_ , Shireen wrote, before adding, _Actually, Patches was the one who found her for me, in Aegon’s Garden._

 _We have found a most splendid fool_ , his father had written about finding Patchface, another lifetime ago. The fool had survived while the parents of three young sons, one of them still a toddler tottering unsteadily on his feet, had not. The High Septon was fond of prattling on and on about how _just_ the judgment of the gods was bound to be, but where was the justice in that?  

Though, if Patchface were to perish now, Shireen would be inconsolable. Not that Stannis would have the least idea on how to even begin to try to console his grieving daughter. Her mother would know. Isn’t that what mothers are for?

Unbidden, the retreating figures of his own mother and father came to mind, his mother and father as he last saw them alive. Turn around! Let me see your faces for the last time, he always pleaded in his dream. They never did turn around, no matter how much he willed it. The sight of the backs of their heads seemed almost like a silent rebuke to Stannis, a judgment from the dead.

_What kind of father have you turned out to be, Stannis?_

_Robert is worse!_

_Is that any consolation for us? Have we failed our sons so badly?_

_It is not your fault. Neither of you. We failed ourselves._

His eyes roamed through his daughter’s letter, not really seeing or understanding the words, until he reached a certain part. _I hope she will be able to fly again, when her wings are healed. It must be sad and so lonely for a bird not to be able to soar in the sky like all her companions._

Stannis halted. He went back to the beginning of the letter, reading more carefully this time. The ‘splendid pet’ turned out to be a pigeon, a fallen bird with injured wings. Cook had wanted to put the pigeon out of its misery and serve it for dinner, but Shireen had run to her mother, promising to nurse the injured bird back to health herself, and Selyse had promptly put an end to the roasted pigeon notion.  

_She is not in too much pain, I hope. Maester Cressen said the ointment -_

_I hope. I hope. I hope_ , his daughter kept writing.

_I hope you will find a suitable bride for Prince Rhaegar. I hope you will return home safely. I hope I will see you both very soon._

_You foolish, foolish child_ , he thought, but whether he was actually thinking of his daughter, or of his younger self, or perhaps both, he would not have been able to enlighten even himself.  

_What should I name her, Father? Mother said you had a goshawk called Proudwing when you were a boy._

An ill-omen name if ever there was one, Stannis scoffed. Her pigeon would never fly again. Or it would, and then it would swiftly leave her behind. Either way, it was bound to end in tears, thwarted hope and grave disappointment. The trick, he had finally learned, far too late, was to expect the worst, always, and then you would never be disappointed, would never have to suffer the recurring pain of disillusionment.

He knew what Cressen would say. The old maester would say that it was too cruel a lesson to be taught to a child, any child. But was it any crueler than leaving them vulnerable and defenseless against the cruelties of the gods?

But then again, how much had always expecting the worst truly protected him from disappointment and disillusionment? Or was that just another layer of illusion he had never managed to shed despite his best effort - the illusion that he was a man completely _without_ illusion?

 _She may never fly again, your pigeon. You must be prepared for that possibility_ , he wrote his daughter.

 _But I hope she will, one day_ , he finally added, the words coming hard, like an old friend that had become a complete stranger.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hoster Tully & Edmure Tully, pride**

He is precious, so very precious, he is told every day, by his nursemaid, by his father, by Cat, even by Lysa when she could be bothered to stop mooning over Littlefinger. When he falls down the elm tree and breaks his arm, his father orders the tree to be cut down immediately. Only his vehement protestation and solemn promise that he will never, ever climb the tree again manage to change Father’s mind.

When he is ill, the whole castle is thrown into mourning. Footsteps echo in the silent halls. Voices are never raised above a whisper. His father broods and paces the floor, peppering the maester with questions after questions. When the fever finally breaks, his father showers him with kisses and embraces him as if he has accomplished some incredible feat, like defeating a dragon or rescuing a maiden. “My boy,’ Father says. “I am so proud of my boy.”

His namedays are celebrated in a far grander fashion than his sisters’, grander than even Lord Hoster’s own namedays. It never occurs to him to wonder why he is so very precious; he takes it in stride, indulgently, as his due, as _Edmure’s_ due, until the day Littlefinger scoffs at that notion.

They have been quarrelling, that is the beginning of it. He mocks Littlefinger for always mooning over Cat, saying, “She doesn’t really like you. She’s only nice to you because she’s _Cat_ , and Cat is always nice to everyone. You’re not so special.”

Littlefinger swiftly retaliates with, “And you’re not so precious. You’re only precious to your father because you’re his heir. It’s not because you’re _you_. It’s not because you’re oh-so-precious _Edmure_. It’s only because you’re lucky enough to be born the only son of Lord Tully. If someone else is the heir, he would be just as precious to your father and your sisters and everyone else in the castle, and you would be nothing.”

Indignant, he shouts, “Father says he is proud of me. _Me!_ He is proud of his only boy.”

“ _Only_ boy,” Littlefinger sneers. “He has no choice but to be proud of you. Your fortune is the result of mere birth, not because of anything you ever accomplished.”

He gets his revenge on Littlefinger for this later, when he offers to squire for Brandon Stark during that stupid duel. He cares not a whit for Brandon Stark, who laughs too loudly and shows too much teeth when he smiles, who talks and acts as if Cat already belongs to him, but there is the satisfaction of showing Littlefinger up. And yet, Littlefinger’s words linger still in his mind. Littlefinger’s defeat at Brandon Stark’s hand and his subsequent banishment from Riverrun do not erase the doubt growing inside Edmure’s mind.

 _Are you truly proud of me, Father?_ He is too afraid to ask, uncertain of the answer.

 _Tell Father I have gone to make him proud. I mean to give him a better reason to be proud of me than mere birth_ , he says to Cat, but not to his father, not until it is too late.


	6. Chapter 6

**Davos Seaworth & Devan Seaworth, hope**

When you were born, that was the first time I was present by your mother’s side at the birth of one of our sons, kissing her brow and holding her hand tightly. Lord Stannis was, and _is_ , a demanding master, but not an unfeeling one, unlike the sea and the storm, unlike the master I served when I was a smuggler.    

“He looks just the same. He looks just like Maric and Matthos did, ugly as sin like any newborn babe,” your brother Allard said, with some surprise, when he held you in his arms for the first time.

Dale had laughed at that, I remember clearly. “Why, what did you expect him to look like?”

 “A prince!” Allard declared, raising you high up in the air. “A glorious prince. He is the first son born into House Seaworth after all. A knight’s son, not the son of a smuggler.” 

“What’s wrong with being the son of a smuggler?” came Dale’s rejoinder. “That’s what _we_ were, and we were none the worst for it. We never starved or had to beg bread from strangers. Father and Mother made sure that never happened.”

“But surely Devan’s future would be even more glorious. Seaworth born and bred, why, he might even wed a princess,” Allard jested.

Dale laughed. “You are dreaming too high, brother.” Then, solemnly, he said, “We are Seaworths too. We are all Seaworths now, Father said.”

“But not Seaworth from birth, not like him,” Allard replied. “Devan would never feel like an impostor, like he doesn’t really belong in this life of knights and lords.”

I did not make my presence known to your brothers, slipping quietly into your nursery (yes, our keep was blessed with a nursery, as well as enough bedchambers so your four brothers no longer had to sleep crowded in one small room. I wept with joy and gratitude, when I first saw those bedchambers and the large, airy kitchen that was so different from the narrow space your mother had to contend with in our old home. The fingers Lord Stannis took seemed a very small price to pay indeed.)

But it _was_ a new life we were faced with, and one not without its challenges. I hoped, and I prayed, that your brothers would find their way safely if not always comfortably through this new world, that they would not forever be cursed to feel like an impostor.

I hoped, and I prayed, that the circumstances of your birth, that the fortune you have been blessed with since birth that your brothers were not, would not drive a wedge between you and them, would not turn you into a stranger in your own family.

I hoped, and I prayed, that you would not grow to be ignorant or contemptuous of our past, of where we came from, even though it was a past you did not share, a past you never lived through.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hoster Tully & Lysa Tully, shame**

_She will never know_ , he tries convincing himself. Lysa will never know the truth. Miscarriages are not uncommon after all. His beloved Minisa suffered miscarriages of her own, and there was nothing induced or unnatural about any of them.

"It's a tonic," he tells her, eyes not quite meeting her gaze, "for your health."

She takes it, takes it and drinks it, because despite her one colossal act of defiance (which to Lysa was never about defying her father anyway but was about love, loving and being loved), deep down she is still a good girl, the girl who wants to please her father, who does not want to disappoint him even more, who looks at him with trusting eyes still, the girl who is surprised, gratified and grateful that her father still cares about her health, about _her_. 

The girl who would never suspect that her father -

"Thank you, Father," she says, eyes brimming with tears, but her father does not see, turning away too quickly.

 _How could you?_ The accusing voice is not Lysa's, but Minisa's. _Our daughter. She is our daughter._

_I have no choice! Jon Arryn would take a soiled girl as the price for my army, but that proud, proud man would never have agreed to raise somebody else's bastard. what would happen to Lysa then? What kind of life would she have then? Marriage to one of my household knights would be the best she could hope for. Shamed! She would be shamed. This is the only way. The only way to save her from everlasting shame._

_Is it truly her shame that concerns you, Father, or your own?_ It is Cat's voice accusing him this time, Cat who knows nothing of this, Cat who will never know what her father did, he vows. 

_Her shame is my shame. And Tully's shame. Those things are inseparable, just like family, duty and honor are inseparable._

_I will never forgive you, Father_. It is finally Lysa's voice, accusing him. _I will go to my grave not forgiving you._

_You will go to your grave as the honored Lady Arryn, with no one else knowing your darkest secret and your greatest shame._

_It is not my greatest shame, it is yours. You will go to your grave regretting the day your murdered your daughter in all the ways that really matter._


	8. Chapter 8

**Elia Martell & Young Griff, courage**

_Your father was -_

_Your father yearned for –_

_Your father dreamed of –_

_Your father loved -_

_Your father. Your father. Your father._ He learned everything there was to know about his father from Jon Connington – well, everything that Jon wished him to know, in any case, for he suspected that there were plenty of things about his silver prince Jon kept to himself - but Jon would tell him almost nothing about his mother. Nothing of any significance in any case, nothing that could tell him who she truly _was_ , what she yearned for, dreamed of.

She loved her children, Jon told him _that_ , at least, but that fact alone told him very little, for what mother didn’t? (He is young, young and very sheltered, and has yet to learn that it is not something that could be taken for granted, that all mothers and fathers love their children. But he is also an orphan – an orphan raised by a man who treated him more like a precious jewel entrusted to his care than like a son, a jewel Jon has to continually polish and shape to be a worthy occupant of the throne, and perhaps more importantly in Jon’s mind, to be a son worthy of his dead father - and thus could not be faulted for desperately dreaming of the unconditional love of a parent.)

Septa Lemore knew more, about his mother, if only she was willing to speak. But she did so only rarely, always out of Jon’s hearing. “Your mother had courage. They think her weak, but she had more courage than your father ever did. She knew what needed to be done, what should have taken precedence, and laid her plans accordingly, but your father was … wavering. He had other things in mind, things he considered more important.”

“What needed to be done?”

“About your mad grandfather. About deposing him from the throne before the realm burned. Your mother knew that the clear and present danger must be dealt with first, before taking actions to avert future calamities.”

“But Jon said my father always knew what needed to be done. He had a reason, a good reason for everything he did.” That was the lodestar of his existence, the one thing Jon taught him over and over again. _No matter what they say about him, no matter what lies they tell you about him, remember that your father had the best of reason for everything he did. He was trying to save us all in the only way he knew how._

“Love can blind us to the truth. Your father was not the only one trying to save the realm. Your mother’s way would not have made you an orphan, would not have made countless children orphans.”

“Did you love my mother?”

Recoiling, Septa Lemore whispered, “I hardly knew her.”

“And yet you know so much about my mother.”

“I know what mattered to her. You may not have her looks, but you are your mother’s son too, not just your father’s. Remember that, in everything that you do.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Serenei of Lys & Shiera Seastar, love**

“Aunt Missy, tell me again about my mother.”

Aunt Missy is not really Shiera’s aunt at all - perhaps a stepmother, one of many, would be closer to the mark - but _‘Aunt Missy_ ’ is what she has always called her, though there are times when Shiera longs to call her ‘ _Mother’_ just like Mya, Gwenys and Brynden do.

“Your mother had the most wonderful laugh,” Aunt Missy says, her face blooming into a smile, her hand still busily brushing Shiera’s hair. “And she was great with the children. She always had wonderful treats laid out for my children when we came to court. Not just sweets and puddings, but tales and songs too. Tales you could not find anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, Brynden used to say.

“Was … was she really a sorceress, like those men in court said?” Shiera is only seven, and certain things are beyond her comprehension, but she could hear just fine. More than fine. _The sorceress’ daughter_ , they had pointed at her and whispered, the last time Aunt Missy took her to court.

“Your mother had certain gifts,” Aunt Missy replies. “She saw things that other could not. They did not understand it, and thus called it sorcery.”

“She couldn’t have been one, I am sure of it,” Shiera says adamantly. “She couldn’t have been a sorceress. If she had truly been a sorceress, she would have lived _forever_. Forever and ever. She would not have died and left me alone.”

The hand brushing her hair ceases to move. “Do you really feel so alone, child?”

“No, not really,” Shiera admits.  “I have you. And Mya and Gwenys. And Brynden too.”

 “But you still miss your mother. Of course you do. It is only natural,” Aunt Missy says, after kissing Shiera’s cheek.

“If my mother really had those gifts you mentioned, why couldn’t she have done something to keep herself alive? For me. For her daughter.” Raising her tear-stained face, Shiera asks, “Didn’t she love me, Aunt Missy?”

Embracing Shiera tightly, Aunt Missy says, “She loved you dearly, Shiera, even before you were born. She _knew_ you would be a girl when you had barely quickened in her womb. She chose your name as early as that. And she entrusted you to my care, for she also _knew_ she would not live to see you grow to be a girl, to be a woman, and there was nothing she could do about that.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Cassana Estermont & Stannis Baratheon, footsteps**

“You should not have derided the singers so openly, Stannis.”

“You misliked their favor-currying songs too, Mother. I know you did. I saw the way you were smiling. You might have fooled others with that smile, but not me. I _know_ that smile.”

“But I did not show them my contempt and my displeasure so overtly, in front of all our guests.”

“You want me to be false?”

“No, I want you to be kind, Stannis.”

“Where is the kindness in pretending?”

“Sometimes it is necessary to pretend, in order to spare others.”

“To spare them from the truth?”

“To spare them from our sharp tongue. From our at times too-quick censure and judgment. We share that, you and I.”

“They were trying to curry favor with Father. You know that as well as I do, Mother. You see it as clearly as I do. All those songs about the supreme and unmatched glory of –“

“Do you think your father is so foolish to fall for it? It is the singers’ task to curry favor with whichever lord is paying them to entertain his guests. It is how they make their living, how they put food on the table for themselves and their family. Your father knows they do not truly mean the praises they are heaping on him and his ancestors, but he smiles and claps nonetheless and praises them for their songs. It is how the game is played. It is a dance in which all the steps have been decided and set in stone beforehand.”

“I do not care for it. I do not care for it at all.”

“Neither do I. But this is the world we live in. We have to learn to accommodate it, if we wish to make our way smoothly and safely in this world.”

“Is that why you and Father are going to Volantis to find a bride for Prince Rhaegar, even though neither of you really wishes to go?”

“That is a king’s command, Stannis. It has to be obeyed, not merely accommodated, if we wish to keep our family safe.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Lyarra Stark & Lyanna Stark, fear**

_Lya, don’t. Do not do this, child. Do not choose this path. It will not bring you joy._

She does not hear, of course. How could you hear the whispers of the dead?

_You married for love, Mother. How much joy have you had of that?_ _Lyarra had asked her mother, another lifetime ago._

_You married not for love, Mother. How much joy did you have of that?_ _Lyanna never had the chance to ask_ _her_ _mother._

_The answer, according to their daughters, would have been the same for Arya Flint and Lyarra Stark: very little joy._

_You must be careful, Lyarra. You must be careful that you are not making a grave mistake of your own while trying so hard not to repeat what you see as your mother's mistake. You must be careful that you are not choosing an even more treacherous path because you are so intent on avoiding the path I chose,_ Arya Flint had warned her daughter.

 _I’m afraid, Mother. I’m afraid of losing myself the way you did. I’m afraid of love that turns to indifference, to bitterness, to hatred,_ Lyarra had thought, but never had the courage to confide to her mother.

 _I’m afraid, Mother. I’m afraid of being trapped in a cage the way you were. I’m afraid of civility that turns to cold courtesy, to dutiful embrace, to endless silence,_ Lyanna wished she could have confided to _her_ mother.

_I’m afraid, Lya. I’m afraid that you are about to commit a grave mistake of your own, because you are so intent on not repeating your mother’s._


	12. Chapter 12

**Doran Martell & Arianne Martell, love**

“Higher!” Arianne demands.

Father laughs. “You’re too big for this game, Arianne. What if I can’t catch you this time?”

But Father always catches her. Always. He would never let her fall.

“When the baby comes out from mother’s belly, will you still want to play with me?”

Father kisses her cheek. “Of course.”

“Will you love me less? Will you love me ….” Arianne pauses, counting the numbers in her head, “only half as much?”

“Of course not. I will love you the same, as always.”

“But what about the baby? Aren’t you going to love the baby?” Arianne doesn’t want Father to love her less, of course, but poor, poor baby, if Father doesn’t love it at all.      

“I will love your brother or your sister too, of course, just like I love you.”

“But Grandmother said siblings have to share, that’s their duty. She said when you were her only child, you got a blood orange all to yourself, and then when Aunt Elia and Uncle Oberyn were born, you shared the blood orange with them, divided into three.”

“That’s true about many things, but not about love. I love your mother, and when you came –“

“-from mother’s belly,” Arianne interrupts.

Father smiles. “From her belly, yes. When you came, I love you too. But I don’t love your mother less because I love you. And I will not love you less because I love the new baby.”

“Love is not like blood orange?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then what is it like?”

“It’s like the moon,” Father whispers, pointing at the night sky.

“The moon?”

“Look how small it is now. We can barely see it. How do you think it will look tomorrow night, a week from now, two weeks from now?”

“It will be … bigger?”

“Clever girl. And eventually it will look like a complete circle, not just part of a circle.“

“It grows!”

“That’s what love is like. The more people you love, the bigger your love grows.”

 _But the moon grows smaller too, Father_ , _once it has become that complete circle_ , Arianne thinks, when she is four-and-ten and those words – _one day you will sit where I sit and rule all of Dorne_ – those words meant for Quentyn are haunting her every waking moment.

_You promised! You promised you would not love me any less. How could you lie? Father, why?_

Her father does not catch her this time, when she falls. He does not even see her falling. 


End file.
